<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>Supporting Our Local Businesses by Badendchan</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27760225">Supporting Our Local Businesses</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Badendchan/pseuds/Badendchan'>Badendchan</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>'What Are THEY So Happy About?' -- A Happy Huntresses Anthology [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>RWBY</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Banter, Decidedly No Sex In The Sex Shop, F/F, Folks Have You Ever Just Spent Your Entire Bounty Payout On Replenishing Lost Sex Toys, I Haven't But They Sure Have, Just Like How Tagging It Comedy Feels Exaggeratory When They're Just Making Dick Jokes, May Suffers Which Honestly Is Par For The Course, Only The Ghosts Of Sexmas Yet To Come, Polyamory, Tagging This As Romance Feels Disingenuous Even Though They Love Each Other, very happy huntresses</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 21:54:53</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,186</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27760225</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Badendchan/pseuds/Badendchan</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>The consequences of the Fall of Beacon in Vale were myriad, unforeseen, far-reaching, and in some cases, very absurd.</p>
<p>With intercontinental shipping out of commission, the Happy Huntresses must boldly venture out in search of new, local suppliers for their needs… On AND off-the-clock.<br/>
&lt;Or&gt;<br/>
The Polycule Goofs Off In A Sex Shop.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Robyn Hill/May Marigold/Fiona Thyme/Joanna Greenleaf</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>'What Are THEY So Happy About?' -- A Happy Huntresses Anthology [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2030677</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>51</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Supporting Our Local Businesses</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Enjoy absolutely no sex, but constant reminders of the insinuation -- past and future -- of gratuitous sex. Or 'lovemaking,' but... But, y'know, that's just cool sex.</p>
<p>Sorry, none of this is funny or cute. Or even hot. I mean. Maybe I should've just written some doinking? ...I don't know, just work with me here. </p>
<p>(As usual: Unbeta'd, clumsily-edited, and most importantly: This fic isn't my fault.)</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“I cannot <em>believe</em> we’re actually doing this,” drones May.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“<em>I</em> can’t believe it’s because of<em> IRONWOOD</em> we have to do this,” adds Fiona.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“And <em>I can’t believe</em> the both of you are keeping us out in the cold.” Joanna huffs, swinging open the door and jingling the little bell on top in the process. “Let’s get this ordeal over with.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Robyn is much more optimistic than her three companions, of course; it was her idea to come here. “Hey now, girls. Let’s just think of it as… supporting our local businesses!”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The <em>local business</em> of the day happens to be <em>Viridian’s Secret – </em><em>Adult Novelties </em><em>&amp; Apparel, </em>a nondescript, windowless establishment, but one leaving absolutely no question about its contents.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>With the recent loss of the global CCTS and General Ironwood’s newly imposed embargo shuttering Atlas from intercontinental shipping, options for procuring quality <em>intimacy aids </em>have been stripped down drastically. Where before, the Happy Huntresses oft procured most of their various titillating tools of trade from a reputable, discreet online retailer headquartered in Vale, the whims of wicked fate have dumped them in front of this new, lurid storefront, dodging glances from passing pedestrians.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Their daring leader proudly enters first, giving Joanna a peck on the cheek in passing for her door-holding chivalry. “Why, such a gentlewoman! In we go, kids.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Pouty-lipped, May and Fiona both sniff at their patronizing demotion to ‘kid’ tier, and begin to skulk into the store past a smugly grinning Joanna. One of them <em>accidentally</em> elbows her in the ribs, and both will immediately rat the other out upon interrogation.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>"Imagine the headlines. <em>Hometown </em><em>Smut</em><em> S</em><em>tore</em> <em>– </em><em>business booming thanks to global terror incident!</em>" May snarks along the way, folding her arms and adjusting her eyes to the blinding levels of depravity before her.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Joanna gives her a shove to hustle things along. “Can you two just get inside, before somebody spots us? ...And we have to hold a town hall in front of a rack of fake dongs?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“It COULD play well with our stance on sex positivity and protections for workers…” Robyn muses from further within, peering lengthways down the aisles, plotting their plan of attack.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The problem with Robyn Hill is… they can’t be 100% certain she doesn’t <em>actually</em> mean it. All the more reason to snag their haul and make tracks as fast as possible, before they catch her drafting a speech.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Even with the embargo, it’s not like they’d have much cause to be here, had the crew not suffered a devastating blow to their prized and precious stockpile; the second-to-latest secret hideaway the Happy Huntresses co-opted was, for a time, a cozy basement bungalow, nestled close to a primary node for the city’s heating grid, washer-dryer included, soft carpets… All until another of Mantle’s many untended sewer mains flooded their floor with a two-foot layer of filth. Their duffel of old standards, a few new finds never-yet-tested... Effectively everything not still stowed in Fiona’s semblance, crammed in the upper shelf of the closet, or otherwise protected from the funk all became a casualty.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>This, naturally, poses a <em>dire and immediate concern</em> that must be rectified posthaste, now that they’ve a free evening to spare, and a nice bonus from their last hunt in the tundra to spend on restocking sexy sundries. They can’t just go back to plain vanilla lovemaking! They even lost a certain merry member’s maid outfit, for Brothers’ sake – May insists it can clearly wait, <em>‘No, it can absolutely not,’</em> vote the remainder.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Now remember, team. This is, first and foremost, a resupply run. Nobody go wild and wooly out there,” Robyn says, and the waggling eyebrows she gives Fi return her an indignant blepped tongue. “Let’s say… everybody pick one shiny new thing, we’ll put it to a vote before we go.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Oh. My. Gods. <em>Robyn Hill! </em>In <em>our</em> store! On <em>my</em> shift!<em>”</em></p>
<p> </p>
<p>The other three positively <em>seethe</em> with ‘I Told You So’ energy in that moment, instinctively ducking their heads and playing inconspicuous as the peppy goat faunus at the register recognizes their glorious leader immediately and starts to gush.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“And her Happy Huntresses, in the flesh, and at your service,” Robyn winks, gliding up to the counter and oozing her public-appearance charm. “But I’m sure I can count on your discretion… AND maybe even your vote in the upcoming?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>This shameless behavior is collectively decreed <em>‘cringe’</em> by the Council of Girlfriends in an unspoken summit, all of whom excuse themselves while Robyn fishes for a voter, each wandering into the aisles.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span class="u"> AISLE ONE: INSERTIBLES </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Swinging back around with a shopping basket dangling from either arm, Robyn holds one out for Joanna, who accepts it with a grunt.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Nngh. Did you <em>REALLY</em> have to flirt with the sex shop cashier?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Did I <em>REALLY</em> have to get us a standing 20% discount?” Robyn preens. “Yes, babe. Yes, I did.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Joanna can’t decide whether or not she’s impressed; this has always been Robyn’s forte. It doesn’t take long to catch up with their party’s other half, who’ve occupied themselves ogling the latest and greatest innovations from the <em>B</em><em>ad Beowolf</em> company, indulging their morbid curiosity.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span class="u">“<em><b>The Creep”</b></em></span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Fiona knits her brows staring at this… little spindly, lizardy, tentacular <em>everted </em><em>hemipenis </em>monstrosity, done up in classic Grimm black-and-white, with red adorning the bulbous mini-nodes on its… shaft? Is it even a shaft? She doesn’t think she can call it a shaft; ‘shafts’ are usually more shaft-like.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Coming up from behind, Jo drops an arm on her shoulder to lean in, resulting in a squeak of displeasure from the faunus. “See, I still don’t get this gimmick – Grimm don’t even <em>HAVE</em> dicks! Have any of these people ever been pinned under a Creep before? Because I have, and I didn’t see ANY of…” She gestures to the whole of the <em>art </em><em>piece.</em> “...Of THIS shit while I was gutting it.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Maybe it had performance anxiety,” drawls May, examining a horrifyingly opaque bottle of pitch-black personal lubricant, styled after the beasts’ dripping darkness. It looks like <em>motor oil.</em></p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Let the civvies have their fun, a little imagination in bed’s never hurt any of <em>us,</em>” Robyn pipes up, only to trail into a contemplative pause. “N’yeah, okay, that one might.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span class="u">“<em><b>The M</b></em><em><b>anticore</b></em><em><b>”</b></em></span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Gods, it’s like a turret barrel…!” Fiona muses, reaching out to pat the synthetic silicone skin of the burly thing and compare it to the lesser girth of her forearm. A jabby tip, too, and riddled with spikes further down. “Who is this even for? Because I <em>don’t</em> want to meet them.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>May lifts up the massive display model, finding it far weightier than she’d feared. She could buy a pair of these to replace her dumbbells. “If this one’s a Manti, I’d hate to see a Megoliath. You’d need a wheelbarrow for the damn thing.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“It wouldn’t be the <em>most</em> horrifying thing in stock,” Joanna grumbles, tapping the two on the back and thumbing over past where Robyn Hill stands, agog.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span class="u">“<b>The Iron Wood”</b></span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>More malicious a concept than any fantastical Grimmschlong, and with an uncreative name so predictable as to be practically mandatory, atop a ‘New Releases’ pedestal it sits: A significantly sizable, semitransparent blue jelly-like dong apparatus, hexagonal patterns lining its surface to mimic a hard-light hologram, all protruding from a chrome ‘projector’ base. With balls. <em>A design befitting any and all who aren’t already feeling fully fucked ove</em><em>r</em> <em>by General Jimbo </em><em>and crave that dictator dick.</em></p>
<p> </p>
<p>“If a single one of you touches that thing, I’m breaking up with you,” Robyn states.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I can feel my libido dying in real time,” whispers Fi.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Prying herself away from the spectacle, May waggles a hand in front of her girlfriends’ faces. “For the love of– Will one of you just grab us a couple normal picks and be done with it?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Wrenched free of the horrified, hypnotic state, Robyn rubber-bands back into leadership and begins to delegate. “May-day’s right, folks. We’re on a mission! Jo-Jo, you’re on harness and dildo-duty. Bo Peep, butt stuff. I’ll handle the lube, and you–” She hangs her basket from her elbow to drop a hand on May’s shoulder, clicking the other at her in a finger-gun. “You stand there and look pretty.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>May is only <em>slightly </em>totally charmed. “I’m grabbing the vibes,” she says, shrugging off her leader’s grip.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>A leader who snarks after her, “Only good vibes, hon!” before crouching next to Joanna and beginning to assess the merits of water-based versus silicone. “...Not really our best candidate for that, but–”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Hey, what kinda tails d’we want?” Fiona calls out from further down, waving a pair of colorful petplay plugs, one in either hand. “They’ve got kitty ones in white for <em>me</em>, and– And maybe May can be the puppy this time around instead!”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“May, a pup? Have you <em>met</em> her?” Jo says, dumping some dildos of sane size and sensible shape into her basket. “That’s a stretch.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Fiona purses her lips, returning to the drawing board. “Maybe one of those spoiled Atlesian purse-puppies?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“<em>I can still hear you people from over here,” </em>warns May.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The sheep faunus <em>has</em> already stocked suitable replacements for their same-olds, but her excitement is taking over. “OH! They’ve got some feathery ones, too! You always call her our bluebird!”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Robyn chuckles, smooth and melodic. “...And how we <em>do</em> love to make her sing for us…”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“<b>ROBYN!”</b></p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span class="u"> AISLE THREE (WEST) : BDSM &amp; KINK EQUIPMENT </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“And here goes our budget,” says Joanna, rounding the corner into a world of medium-quality bondage gear and other niche sundries. “Think we all know whose fault THAT is. Converting us all with her kinky mind.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>May leers, unamused. “<em>You three</em> aren’t innocent! I didn’t buy THIS–” she blurts out, tugging down her scarf to flash her fine leather collar, “for MYSELF, you know!”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Completely converted us. Bewitched.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Robyn slinks up from the other side. “Seduced? Enchanted, even,” she adds to the pot, utilizing the handy-dandy grapple point May’s so conveniently provided and fluidly hooking a finger into the collar’s O-ring, tugging the shorter woman with her. “Come along, dear.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>And so she does. Welp.</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Fiona, conspicuously absent on a side-trip to another section, swaggers back over to meet them with a jiggly pink masturbatory sleeve, miming a scroll to one ear and affecting as grating a <em>fratboy</em> imitation as she can manage in her adorable voice without cracking up: "Aight, babe, I’m in the fleshlight aisle, what size dick you wear?" <em>...The loss of fresh CCTS memes is getting to her.</em></p>
<p> </p>
<p>Craning her neck to look behind herself – tricky, when Robyn’s still got her gripped tight – May gripes, “Not big enough to shut you up, unfortunately.”</p>
<p>The faunus giggles brightly and dumps the item into Joanna’s already-packed basket. “Pfft! Of course not, silly! That’s what the gags are for!”</p>
<p>She offers a palm for a high-five, which Jo low-fives in short order.</p>
<p>“Good point!” Robyn considers, stopping short and causing her would-be captive to stumble. “Go grab some, will you? And May doesn’t like the metal kind, so make sure any rings are padded.”</p>
<p>May heaves a suffering sigh. “Hello? I am still <em>perfectly capable</em> of speaking for myself.”</p>
<p>“Again, <em>that’s what the gags are for.</em> Are you having trouble following?” snarks Robyn in return, barely suppressing a snicker at her own dumb joke, and carting the other woman down towards racks of restraints in every color under the sun. Or under the big-ass floating city, as the case may be.</p>
<p>It hadn’t been so outrageous a claim for Joanna to make, that the bulk of their disposable sexcapade stipend would inevitably go to procuring things in and around the outright kinky, nor that it was effectively, totally-super-obviously-May’s-fault for being <em><b>such</b></em> an utter submissive that her mere presence within the polycule yanked the other three into her gravitational orbit all those years ago, further clarifying their place – or interest<em> putting people in their place</em> – accordingly.</p>
<p>So. Yes. Totally her fault. Nevermind the raw fervor with which her girlfriends <em> <b>also</b> </em> go happily hunting for instruments of debauchery to soon turn upon one another. The effort expended in filtering out the safe from the flimsy, the real primo material from the chaff. <em>Her fault. </em> <em>Oops.</em></p>
<p>Robyn heaves a breath and rattles her basket upon her return from the farthest end, plucking her scroll from her coat to open up her notes tab. “Alright, let’s skim the shortlist. Sorted out some cuffs to tide us ‘til our next bonus job, so that’s a check. Rope?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Rummaging around in their acquisitions, Joanna gives a quick confirmation. “Three bundles, treated. Check.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Safety shears? Blindfold better than a sleeping mask?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“That’s a double-check.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Gags for the brats?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Check.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“HEY!”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Yeah, hey!” Fiona protests, hooking an arm around May’s in solidarity. “I’m not a brat, I’m clearly a good girl! ...Unlike her.” <em>Short-lived solidarity. Someone had to go under the bus.</em></p>
<p> </p>
<p>May twists her limb free and gives the outer edge of her teammate’s floppity sheep ears a flick. “Traitor. I’ll fight you, I will fight you right here.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Cocking a hip, Joanna stares down the squabblers. “And <em>I</em> will <em>spank</em> the both of you right here.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Oh, sweetheart. <em>That’s</em> not going to make them stop,” Robyn says so nonchalantly, scroll pocketed only to pluck the handle of a riding crop from her own basket and raise the tip to tap so gently at Fiona’s sternum… to cross over and delicately graze the very base of May’s chin to lift-lift-lift it to face her.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>Fiona’s throat goes parched. May’s pupils <b>dilat</b><b>e</b> before they flutter shut.</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>But then there’s a bright flash and a grainy shutter-click sound effect – Joanna’s snapping a scroll photo. “Your FACES. Your actual <em>FACE</em><em>S</em><em>,</em> holy shit.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span class="u">REAR WALL : LINGERIE &amp; COSTUMING</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>And there it is. Upper rack, third from the shop’s back wall, hanging in between some shoddy imitation Atlas Academy uniforms in adult sizes and a garish succubus getup. <em>Their final quarry.</em></p>
<p>“Nope.”</p>
<p>“What do you mean, ‘nope,’ you’re into it,” argues Fiona. “We ALL know you’re into it too, May!”</p>
<p>“At least my old one was realistic! ...Mainly, because it <em><b>was</b></em> real! <em>That</em> skirt is WAY too short for EITHER of us, not to mention the material–”</p>
<p>The <em>quarry</em> in question being a certain uniform spotted by one eagle-eyed sheep faunus on the way back from a last-second backtracking for padlocks: A resplendently skintight, glossy-black latex fetish maid outfit in the Mistrali style, intermingling saccharine cuteness with saucy allure, complete with stockings, gloves, and ruffled headband to match. It’s a work of artistic mastery, a lewd diamond in the rough.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Not exactly selling us on this being a bad thing,” points out Joanna, chopping short the rant. For her own part, she’s just savoring the squirminess of a woman so desperate to deny liking what she likes.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“It’s practically TWICE the lien! Look– Look over here, see? We could just get a nice, plain, unfortunately anachronistic <em>attempt</em> at replicating an antebellum Southern-Vale maid’s–” May spiels on, displaying tellingly encyclopedic knowledge on the subject. “Better yet! Get me into an airship, I will <em>LITERALLY</em> break into my parents’ estate and steal myself another. Solo job, in and out, ten minutes, fifteen if I peel back to vandalize the portrait gallery. Twenty for souvenirs.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Her enthusiasm is catchy – both towards aesthetics and the burglary of billionaires – but so too is their collective desire to lovingly tease and roast one another without a scrap of mercy.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Joanna glances at her less-argumentative squadmates, quirking a conspiratorial brow. “You know, Robyn DID ask us to find a ‘shiny’ new thing, didn’t she?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“AND that we’d put it to a vote,” Robyn confirms, voice already seething victory. “All in favor?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Aye.” “Aye-aye!” “You’re all the worst.” “Aye.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>And there they have it. “You,” Robyn shoots a keen violet eye towards the bluenette, then– <em>Oh, she’s going for overkill.</em> She snaps her fingers, points at the outfit on the racks, at a door in the back. “Changing room. Now.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>They’re in public, thus obviously operating at a slight disadvantage towards efficacy for explicit displays of sheer dominant energy, however the mercurial, liminal-space nature of a sex shop and the multiplicative force of adding a smarmily-smiling Fiona and Joanna to the equation are enough to compel even the grumbliest Marigold to cave. The shiny getup is hoisted down and whisked off with only a teensy bit of bashful, blustering profanity blown back their way.</p>
<p> </p>
<p><em>Even in these darkest of days, these uncertain times... Democracy </em> <em>may yet</em> <em> prevail.</em></p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span class="u">CHECKOUT COUNTER</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“...which brings us right back to why they’d only classify their workers as ‘freelancers’ rather than employees, something I’d be aiming to draft some legislative coverage to address in my first term–”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“<b>WHERE <em>THE DUST</em> ARE MY CLOTHES?!”</b></p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Oh, right,” Robyn notes to the cashier, “She’ll be wearing those out.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>With their preliminary resupply run wrapping up, the Happy Huntresses lug their haul to the register. The fascinated faunus working the counter rings up their loot – in between tangents to talk civics with the aspiring councilwoman – while conveniently saved the effort of bagging as Fiona absorbs them one-by-one into her semblance.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Judging by the particularly grumpy gust of wind that seems to sweep from behind the changing room curtain and <em> whap </em> the sneaky sheep on the shoulder, it’s been used to absorb something else, as well.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Behavior like that’s not going to win back your clothing privileges, Mayflower,” scolds Robyn, reaching blindly behind herself and clonking the cloaked huntress in the forehead in an attempt to ruffle her hair.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The invisibility field of May’s semblance shimmers and withdraws to expose her from the shoulders up. For someone who supposedly hates this situation, it should be noted for the court record that there IS a ruffled headband atop her head. “Give me back my coat, at LEAST my coat to cover up, come on.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“You’re not even going to show us what it looks like? After what we just paid for it? <em>Hon...</em>”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Not in <b>public! </b>I’m not walking home like this!”</p>
<p><br/>
“Well- well!” hums Robyn, collecting their change and winking Jo’s way, “ I happen to know a convenient solution to both those pesky problems!” And, in an aside to the employee witnessing the sideshow: <em>“...Team-building exercises.”</em></p>
<p> </p>
<p>Without further ado, the hunkiest Happy Huntress eyeballs the approximate dimensions of their mostly-invisible girlfriend to scoop her up bodily, kicking and fussing, right over her shoulder. The floating head whines, vanishing into the ether.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>It might look strange for civilians on upper 32<sup> nd </sup> to witness the way Joanna’s arm arches up towards her head while she walks, as if carrying a ghostly boombox, but the odd looks should clear up once they pass Sector 3 into Midtown. It wouldn’t be the first time.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The last thing the scantily-clad, invisible, blue-haired sack of potatoes sees as the door swings shut behind them is the friendly cashier waving goodbye, sing-songing “<em>H</em><em>ave fun, </em><em>you four</em><em>!”</em></p>
<p> </p>
<p><em>They’ve vetted a new, half-decent supplier, reloaded on the basics, bantered their way into working up a healthy sexual appetite </em><em>for the evening</em><em>,</em> <em>and i</em><em>t’s only </em><em>8</em><em>:</em><em>00</em><em> PM.</em></p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>So, yeah, they probably will.</em>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>[and then they possibly diddled, or maybe just had sore feet from the walk and crumpled on the couch to watch reruns, the end]</p>
<p>me: (Foolishly impulse-posts a chapter of a doomed shortish multi-chap for a different fandom last night in a sleep-deprivation haze)<br/>also me: (Remembers I meant to post THIS lame oneshot today, first, a long time before I even got around to showing my hand on that other one)<br/>Crap, now people will get, like, EXPECTATIONS about my OUTPUT... It's unfounded! My output and quality are BOTH that of particularly homely turtles!<br/>also dang I'm like. really giving free tickets to psychoanalyze me given the particular through-lines of my fics so far, huh. like. wowsers. i'ma shut up now. </p>
<p>(sorry 'bout this.)</p></blockquote></div></div>
</body>
</html>